


sitting in hell with you

by ser_pouncealot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ghost Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shameless Smut, believe it or not this is a vent fic, keith is a ghost, paranormal elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 12:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17345408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ser_pouncealot/pseuds/ser_pouncealot
Summary: The ghost in Lance's apartment gets a little too friendly. Pidge decides they should get to the bottom of it.





	sitting in hell with you

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i'm back from the dead with a fic i started over a year ago and hadn't touched since until today. although i did give it a good once over it hasn't really been beta'd otherwise, so feel free to point out any mistakes. 
> 
> in other news, i fully plan to finish this even though i'm not even in the voltron fandom anymore (r.i.p.).

The first night he makes himself known, Lance brushes it off as a mere coincidence. 

It could be anything, really. There isn’t any solid, conclusive evidence. Just a really strange feeling that Lance can’t shake. It’s odd, a light and looming presence hanging in the background of his awareness.

Lance feels like he’s being watched. He can almost feel two distinct eyes watching his every move.

He moves back he sheets, sitting up in bed, and surveys the room. It’s just as empty as Lance should’ve expected it to be, but despite apparently being in the clear, the feeling sticks around like a bruise.

It’s not enough for Lance to be fully convinced the phenomenon was anything less than corporeal, but it’s just enough to make him take notice.

He swallows the nervous lump in his throat. This is just too weird. “Hello?”

Lance, being the social person he is, really doesn’t think twice about reaching out. Communicating with… whatever might be lurking around his apartment at night feels so much like common sense to him that one might think second nature for him.

He hopes not.

Sure, it  _ feels  _ natural, but as soon as the sound leaves Lance’s mouth he quickly realizes that verbally acknowledging it, him,  _ whatever  _ probably wasn’t one of his best and brightest decisions.

There’s a long period of silence. He can’t see it, but Lance knows it’s still there.

He tries again against his better judgement.

“Hello?”

More silence, followed by flat out nothing. No cars honking outside his building on the busy street below, no crickets chirping in the dewy early-morning grass. The quiet’s enough to scare him out of his socks, but at least his greeting wasn’t acknowledged. Lance doesn’t even begin to know how he’d handle that. He shakes his head. He’s just being paranoid, as usual.

He doesn’t know what he expected.

\-----

The next night is more of the same, except way more intense in a manner Lance can’t even begin to articulate properly.

He notices the feeling, hanging heavy in the air like a perfume. The room gets noticeably colder around him; Lance gets goosebumps and he speaks out again.

“Who’s there?”

He swears he sees his breath come out in a cloud, mixing with the air in the way it does in the crisp winter weather, not in the dry heat of an Arizona summer. It sends shivers up his spine.

Lance doesn’t get a response, of course. He didn’t expect to. It’s a little thing, really, but it messes with him. Keeps him from sleeping. He tries to tell himself he’s just scared and that he’s imagined everything he’s supposedly experienced, that everyone has nights like this. Right?

Right?

Lance isn’t so sure anymore.

The quiet outside his window is deafening.

\-----

The next night is different. Before Lance even considers entering his bedroom, he catches a flash of something moving down the hallway. He never sees it clearly, and whatever- or whoever, rather- keeps itself exclusively to Lance’s peripheral vision.

He’s walking aimlessly about his apartment with a warm cup of freshly creamed coffee, the way he does when something’s on his mind when he needs to be sleeping. He looks up for a second, just in time to see it.

A darkened shadow in the shape of a human figure appears out of thin air, and then darts from his bathroom into the bedroom.

Lance jumps back in shock and drops his mug. He’s not sure what startles him more, his new friend or the sudden clattering of the the cup making contact with the linoleum and audibly cracking into separate pieces.

He groans. So much for relaxing.

His first instinct is to check the bedroom, but he’s not that stupid. The curiosity will have to bubble up and eat at him all night, but he’s not checking. Nope. That’s how stupid people die in horror movies, and he’s not going to end up as the subject of some awful b-movie with second rate actors supposedly ‘inspired by true events’.

Lance lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding all at once. He looks down at the puddle of coffee and broken ceramic, suddenly realizing he’s going to have to go into the bathroom to get things to clean up his mess.

As much as he doesn’t want to, Lance goes into the bathroom and grabs a towel. His landlord will take it out of his hide (read: his rent) if he fucks up the flooring, and Lance doesn’t have the patience or the money to deal with that, but he still finds himself thinking ‘please, please God, don’t let there be a demon in my kitchen when I get there, I just need a towel and maybe an apartment exorcism’.

It’s dumb and Lance knows it, but it’s comforting in a weird way.

He mops up what he can with the towel and gathers the pieces of broken mug to see if it was salvageable. It really only broke in three places, but that’s more than he was willing to work with.

Sad. He liked that mug.

Lance puts the broken ceramic in the bathroom trash and throws the towel in the hamper.

Lance peeks around his bedroom door. He doesn’t see anything, so he grabs the comforter and a pillow off his bed and dashes into the living room as fast as he can.

He’s finding it harder and harder to convince himself that he’s just being paranoid, that he’s just seeing things. And feeling things. Lance is becoming more and more sure that there’s probably (definitely) some sort of Casper running around in his apartment, going bump in the night.  
He flicks the television on and turns the volume almost all the way down. It’s what his mom used to do to help him fall asleep in his room at night. He smiles at the memory.

He used to be scared of the dark as kid, so his mom put cable and a t.v. in his bedroom specifically because it helped him sleep. Lance isn’t scared of the dark anymore, not anymore than most people are, that is, but he still sleeps better with a shitty sitcom playing in the background.

He sets the remote down on the coffee table and absently wonders what his, um, house guest is after, anyways. Blood? His soul?

Probably not. Despite getting scared almost shitless, Lance doesn’t actually feel afraid of it. Whoever it is has about as many threatening vibes as a baby opossum. Weird, yes, but malevolent? Not really.

Who knows, maybe it just wants to play hide and seek with him. Maybe it just wants to play pranks, even if that means almost giving some poor anxious Cuban college student a heart attack at age twenty.

Somehow, he can’t bring himself to be mad about it. He’s tired, much too tired to actually gather the energy to get worked up over it.

In the end, Lance is more upset about the loss of his coffee than anything else. He sleeps on the couch.

\-----

The evening went by in a suspiciously normal fashion. There were no shadows, no misplaced objects, and no looming feelings for the entirety of his night in. Not that Lance is complaining. He could go his entire life without another paranormal experience and be just fine, he resigns.

Even though Lance tries his hardest not to think about his potential ghostly roommate, the thought still creeps in on him again. Whether it’s fear (he doubts it), curiousity or something else that’s making this so persistent, Lance doesn’t know. He tries to tell himself that it doesn’t matter, but not so deep down, he knows that it does.

He ends up falling asleep, back in his bed this time, with the thought still lodged tightly in his mind.

Lance doesn’t get to sleep for long. He can hear the eerie silence wafting in through the open window, and feel the prying eyes of the presence somewhere towards the end of his bed.  
He tries to ignore it, just as he’s done the last few nights, and eventually drifts back into the sleep that he very much needs.

Lance suddenly lulls awake to the feeling of a cool hand on his bare ribcage. Sort of. He’s in that weird state between sleep and wakefulness where he’s aware of his surroundings to a certain extent, but he cannot very well interact with them.

The hand, cold as ice, travels from his side slowly down, down and down even further to his navel, and slowly inches below. Lance can feel every agonizing inch of the feeling, and he decides he definitely likes it a little more than he should. His mind is clouded with the haze of sleep. He doesn’t think what’s happening to him through very well.

The touch dissipates like a cloud of dust as soon as it reaches the waistline of his boxers. Lance is almost disappointed.

He remembers the events of the previous night when he wakes up in the morning. It’s all too vivid in his memory for Lance to convince himself that it’s just a crock of bullshit cooked up by his paranoid subconscious. It he thinks about it long enough, he can almost feel the cool touch running gently across the tender flesh of his side.

Lance pretends it doesn’t give him the heebie jeebies.

\-----

Lance wonders if ghosts can sense human emotion. He hates to think so, god only knows he’s an emotional mess, but the facts point to it being a likelihood.

The next night continues on exactly like the three before. The touch reaches his lower abdomen, stroking the sensitive skin just below his navel, and Lance whines, sounding very much frustrated. The ghost seems to take notice of his cues for once, and speeds up its ministrations, pushing Lance’s underwear down with invisible but determined force.

Lance feels the odd sensation of something immaterial wrap around the head of his flaccid cock. The ghost moves what feels like a thumb over the tip, stroking him with smooth, steady rhythm until he begins to harden.

The feeling of a cool hand wrapped around him is definitely not something Lance thinks he should find appealing, but with the frustration built up from the night before, he honestly couldn’t be made to care. He absently remembered some joke Pidge made a few weeks back about fear boners. He wonders if this is what she meant.

The ghost quickens its pace. Lance bucks his hips up into the touch, and for a moment it’s almost as if he feels the weight of another being there with him on the bed. Lance sobs a bit, trying to hold back a moan, and lets the being do what it pleases, lets it pleasure him in whatever manner it sees fit.

It feels so good, feels different to any touch he’s ever received prior. He feels it in his cock, obviously, but he swears he can feel it in a way he barely even finds tangible. It permeates his body and it’s way, way too much way too fast. It sends him hurling towards his orgasm faster than he thought possible.

When Lance cums he swears he sees a pair of glowing purple eyes looking up at him. The ghost disappears before he even comes down from his post-orgasm high, leaving him with his own mess and his confusion.

Lance is beginning to wonder if this is his kink or something.

\-----

He’s sitting in a coffeeshop the next day with his two best friends, and although the conversation is light and happy, Lance can’t bring himself to laugh along with Pidge’s snide remarks or Hunk’s cringe-inducing puns. He settles for wrapping his hands around the warm paper cup his latte sits in and stares into the foamy abyss of the steamed milk and coffee.

Lance is quiet, unusually quiet, especially for someone who typically speaks ninety miles a minute, and his friends can’t help but take notice.

“Lance,” a snapping hand appears in Lance’s line of vision. “Hello, ground control to Major Lance, do you copy?”

Lance snaps out of his thoughts and looks upon Hunk’s concerned expression. “Huh?”

Pidge grins, peering from behind her glasses with a look of knowing sympathy. “Late night?”

Lance huffs. “Yeah, something like that.”

Hunk sets his half-empty mug down on the table. “Dude, don’t take this the wrong way but you’ve got under-eye bags the size of craters. You feeling alright?”

Lance wants to tell his friends there’s something weird going on, he wants to vent about the situation. He really does. But he knows if he even tries to recant the recent events it would seem… way too weird for most people, even Pidge to digest.

“Uh, yeah,” he says and taps gently on the side of his cup.

Pidge mock coughs into her coffee. “Bullshit!”, she exclaims, and ‘coughs’ again.

Lance smiles a small smile. Leave it to Pidge to poke at him - she never could just let sleeping dogs lie.

Hunk’s gaze narrows. “Yeah, that. You sure, buddy?”

He sighs. Fuck it.

“Do you… believe in ghosts?” Lance stares at the table, not willing to ask such a question while looking his friends in the eye. No way, he can’t deal with the potential rejection.

Pidge sets her cup down on the table. “Oh, you mean like dead people and stuff?”

Lance shrugs noncommittally. “I guess.”

Hunk laughs. “Yeah okay, good one Lance. Really though, if something’s going on you can tell us about it. You know that.”

Lance inhales sharply and makes eye contact with Hunk. “That is what’s going on, though. I’m not joking.”

“Um,” Hunk starts, visibly stopped in his tracks by the look Lance is giving him, all seriousness and sincerity.

Pidge, thankfully always curious, breaks the uncomfortable silence between Hunk and Lance. Hunk may scold her for it later, but she wants to know more.

“Actually, I do. My brother always told me ghost stories when I was a little girl. I always thought he was just trying to scare me, but the evidence definitely says otherwise.”

Hunk’s attention snaps to Pidge in a millisecond. “So uh, you’re saying, what, that you’ve seen dead people?”

Pidge nods. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Oh my god, that’s so morbid,” Hunk said, looking vaguely horrified.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Lance pipes up. “I’ve been dealing with some dead guy in my apartment for like the last week,” he takes a sip of his drink. “It’s seriously messing with my sleep, and…”

He pauses for a beat too long.

“... And?”, Pidge inquires.

“I think it, I mean he, has a thing for me… or something.”

Hunk just stares at Lance, looking very much like he hasn’t the slightest idea what to say. Lance doesn’t blame him. “What.”

“Well, it’s actually not unheard of,” Pidge states, with a casual air that Lance finds oddly comforting.

Lance is so relieved to hear that she doesn’t think he’s insane that he almost giggles. “Good, because I was starting to think I was losing it.”

Hunk blinks. “So. Wait. What makes you think Casper has the hots for you?”

“It’s uh,” Lance fidgets in his seat. He was really hoping he wouldn’t ask that. He was counting on it, actually. Lance wears his heart on his sleeve, and he’s not good at hiding his expressions.

“It’s just a vibe I get, I guess.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Pidge says.

“How? Because the whole ‘not knowing’ thing is really driving me up a wall here. I’m like, about two hairs short of hitting ‘fuck it’ and buying a ouija board or something.”

Pidge inhales sharply and stands up. “Glad we’re on the same page.” She collects their dirty dishes and brings them over to the counter, making her way to the exit after.

Lance watches for a second before following suit, motioning for Hunk to follow. “C’mon, man. We’ve got investigating to do.”

Hunk’s starting to really get the creeps. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Lance. I-”

“Shhhhhh,” Lance cuts him off, ushering his friend towards the door. “It’ll be fine. Let’s go.”


End file.
